


Repercussion

by Majinie



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Claustrophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: s02e13 Exit Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7618861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majinie/pseuds/Majinie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a closet. So who cares if it's dark and crammed and reminds Jack of choking on cold soil underneath Cardiff over and over again, it's just a room. He'll be fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repercussion

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of the events of Torchwood 02x13 "Exit Wounds".

“In there, quickly, _now_!” the Doctor hisses, pushing Jack forward into something that might be a storage closet, barely more than a niche in the wall with a door, really, and he wants to protest but the brunet has already shut the door behind himself and locked the last ray of the dim light out.

_Alright. It's just a closet. Keep calm._

The room is small and cramped, there's a slight dampness to the walls that he _can't see_ and Jack swallows convulsively, trying to concentrate on the Doctor's quiet, measured breaths so he can match his own rhythm to them, but it's hopeless because he swears the walls are coming closer in the complete, absolute, utter _darkness_ of the incredibly tiny room.

He stands with his back pressed to the wall next to the door, because there  _is_ a door, Jack knows, it was there just a moment ago, but now all he can think of in the cold, constricted place with its stale air and barely any room to move is laying six feet underground, dirt pressing down on him and choking him, in his lungs and throat and nose, trying to gasp back to life but failing after less than a second, the constant  _pain_ of suffocating over and over again.

Jack's breath is coming in brief, shallow gasps now and fuck, he's scared, terrified, even though he  _knows_ , should know anyway, that he won't be going back, but in the blackness of the room, there's nothing to distract himself from the phantom sensation of trying to breathe with cold, damp earth lodged in his airways.

“Jack. _Jack_. Come on, talk to me.” 

There's a touch on his arm, careful and probing because the Doctor can't see anything more like this than Jack can, and judging by the tone of his voice, that wasn't the first time he's tried to get through to the immortal. Jack has slid down the wall at some point and is curled up with his knees tucked up against his chest and his hands fisted in his hair, and being touched is so wrong, there shouldn't be anybody down here to touch him, he is –

No, no of course not, he's not alone, he's not in (underneath) Cardiff, he's not on Earth at all – and yet, he's afraid to move a finger because that might break the spell and he might make contact with muddy soil again, surrounding him and pinning him in place without the freedom to do as much as move a finger because the weight is too strong.

“Jack, what's going on, _please_. Take a breath.” The Doctor's voice is hushed, but urgent, strangely reassuring, and yet...  
  
“Can't,” Jack gasps out between two hitching, too brief intakes of breath. He swears he can taste the dirt on the back of his tongue again. “It's not – I can't, I– it's too....”

“Shush,” the other man orders gently and Jack gladly complies because he's not supposed to be talking, it was a mistake to open his mouth in the first place, it's making the feeling of dirt in his throat even worse, even when he registers the Doctor fumbling around in the dark until he manages to wrap his arms around the Captain, which is –

Which is not as scarily constricting as he has expected, actually, and he finds himself leaning into the touch because even if Time Lords have a lower body temperature than humans, the Doctor is warmer than the cold touch of soil he's expected. Every gasp now carries that unique smell with it and it's like a mild sedative, accompanied by the concerned, but soothing lilt of the Doctor's Scottish accent in his ear.

Slowly, breathing gets easier again and Jack loosens the death grip he had on his own hair with a wince, instead searching for purchase on the other's coat lapels. He's still terrified, still feels like the oxygen might run out any second now, but the hysteria recedes step by step as he concentrates on the Doctor's scent while he tries to take deep breaths and listens to the twin heartbeat that's audible where his cheek is pressed against the Time Lord's chest.

As soon as he has regained his bearings somewhat, he feels like an idiot. He's making a fool of himself and although he's aware of that, the tremor in his hands doesn't stop and he's aware that it probably won't until he's out in the light again.

“Sorry,” he mutters, glad that he has an excuse not to raise his voice because he isn't sure that he'd manage much more than a whisper right now. “Not so good with confined spaces.”

“I noticed,” the Doctor replies with just a hint of sarcasm that's almost overshadowed by the plain worry in his voice. “Since when, though? There was a time where you'd be _extremely_ delighted about, and I quote, 'just you, the closet and me'.” 

Jack huffs a pathetic excuse for a laugh as he discreetly relinquishes his hold on the Time Lord's coat to wipe his cheeks with a shirtsleeve. “Yeah, well,” he says, “that was more than a century ago, though.” _If you don't count 2000 years underneath Cardiff._ _“_ Stuff happened.”

“Like?”

Not letting it go. Of course not; it's very Doctor, Jack supposes.

“Like my funeral,” he responds curtly, and he planned on getting up after saying that, moving away, putting some distance between them, but the Doctor's hold around him tightens with a sharp intake of breath and Jack just doesn't have it in him to struggle right now. He wraps an arm around the Time Lord's waist instead and the other man settles on the floor next to him, both of them silent as they cling to each other.

Quietly, the Doctor murmurs: “For what it's worth –”

“Don't say you're sorry,” Jack interrupts him with more vigour than he had intended. “I deserved it.”

“No you didn't,” comes the immediate, confident reply, like the Time Lord doesn't doubt his own words for a second, and the immortal suppresses a sigh. Again, so very Doctor.

In a hushed whisper, he points out: “You don't know that.” The dark, confined space of the room makes the whole situation feel just that bit more intimate – sure, in the darkness, the other man can't see his face, but Jack still feels more raw and vulnerable than he would have if they'd be having this conversation standing in the kitchenette of the TARDIS.

They're silent for a few moments before the Doctor says gently: “Then tell me about it.” He shuffles on the cold floor until Jack is somehow resting against his chest, both of them wrapped around the other. Jack swallows, unsure of where to start, and cuts himself off several times before even getting one word out; clearly aware of his struggles, the Doctor presses a soothing kiss to his temple and Jack doesn't know if it's the Time Lord's touch telepathy or just the physical contact taking effect, but he feels himself relaxing slightly as he closes his eyes, not that it makes a difference.

“Back on the Boeshane Peninsula,” he begins slowly, feeling his way around each word, “I had a brother...”

 


End file.
